


The Tale Of Morchambe Park

by Punk_in_Docs



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Tragedy, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_in_Docs/pseuds/Punk_in_Docs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the Autumn of 1943, Whilst Britain is deep within the grips of war with Germany. Elizabeth Miller finds herself evacuated from London, to the depleted and neglected estate of Morchambe Park in rural Oxfordshire, belonging to a drunken, introvert and a retired shut in, Professor Cumberbatch. Who would sooner wish for her to return to her life in the city rather than occupy his estate and waste his time. But finds that letting her go may be a hard task, and she soon finds her desperation to return to London for a miserable life, once romance comes into play, could be a difficult thing indeed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. War Office Orders

 

                                   

She had cried in the War Office when they had handed her the letter. Not hysterical weeping as such, but enough for them to see the lonely bitter tear that tracked down her cheek and landed with a soft drop on her red coat. And more small unobtrusive tears fell there as she read. She pressed a leather gloved hand to her cheek to stem them, she didn’t wish for the stoic people in front of her to think she was silly willed female. Of course, she undoubtedly looked like a female. She was dressed in her Sunday best, Poppy Red wool coat, Scarlet silk tea dress and her finest tan leather gloves and shoes, her short auburn hair coiffed and arranged under her red hat, red lipstick on her lips and her grandmother’s broach and fur around her neck. For when she got a summons to the War Office, she wanted to look presentable, for whatever they had to tell her. Maybe they had news of Freddie, her fiance, who was an RAF pilot, having been stationed in Tripoli for the remainder of the war. Maybe he was being stationed elsewhere, But she saw as she was summoned into a small office, that the news regarded her, and was intended for her, and her alone.

-She was to be Evacuated.

She had seen all the small children from London sent off the country two years ago, packed off onto trains away from their families, and sent to strangers to be kept safe from the bombs. She partially felt sorry for them, being sent all that way away from home to an unknown place and strangers, to lead a new life until the war was over. But then the next night she would be huddled in the stuffy heat of the underground for the night, with babies screaming and women weeping as the bomb rained and whistled down on London, and she suddenly didn’t feel such pity for the children that were living peacefully in the country, in fact, she rather felt quite envious of them in that instance.

She was ushered along, after sat gaping at the letter in her hands with parted red lips. Rising from her chair she didn’t say anything other than a polite thank-you to the man who opened the door for her to exit through. She walked down and out onto the street, heading back onto the underground to head home. She walked quietly, listening to the sounds and bustle of busy London in late morning, cars and buses racing and raring on the streets. Just as people were racing around her on the pavements, uncaring if there was rubble strewn across the pavement from the building that had been bombed, the skeleton on its life kicked to the curb as London curved its busy life on around it. She simply hopped over the scattered bricks in her heels and carried on her way, because that’s just what you did. Nothing shocked them now. Not after living in a street that was half in the process of collapsing, and seeing bodies being wrangled free from rubble and mountains of cement. Nothing was shocking to civilians now. Every day, plastered across the newspaper headlines would be new gruesome black and white reminders of the victims of this war, what was happening to the Jews in Eastern Europe, How many planes had gone down over Berlin, or the most recent names added to the roll of honour with soldiers and men dying for their country. People in Britain didnlt care now, it was a melancholy age, the paper would be slapped down on the kitchen table and ignored as families fought about rations and keeping warm in the winter instead.

She rode the tube home in silence, looking down at her shoes as she held the pole and the train rattled along the rails. The stoic face she wore were like many around her, even the young mother with her baby was silent and miserable. The man sat opposite her with the paper, a poor civil servant going to work in whitehall by the looks of things. He looked tired and unutterably sad, and she found it hard to believe that he was finding his job attributing to his love of good old blighty. Everyone had this sheer sadness about them, and she, used to be an optimist, believing they were fighting this war for the good of things, protecting people who were being crushed and killed by a facist dictatorship in Germany. It was making a stand for the downtrodden and putting a stop to a scarily powerful force, but then the bombs came, and rations left people hungry and cold. And now she was being taken away from her home, although it wasn’t much, that she knew. Not compared to what she had before. But now, she found it so easy to be miserable like so many others. Because the hope she always had was dwindling. The man she loved was miles and oceans away and any day now he could die, she knew that, she wasnlt an idiot, she was being sent off to god only knows where, away from her job and the little friends she had left that hadn’t been killed in the bombings. Her family were all dead now. Her Father had died in the Great war. And her mother and grandmother perished with the first few bombs that fell on London. It was true she had naught to stay in London for but her job. Which she loved, she was an author, and she illustrated a childrens book or two in her time. But now even that was being shut down and tugged out from under her, there was apparantly no need for artists with a war going on. So even the happiness and hope of her job that brought joy to many was being snatched from her too. The idle thought going through her head that maybe it was best she left London before this war took away everything she had left. As the tube doors slid open for her stop, Trafalgar Square, and she stepped out, she thought that would be best, best to go before it claimed her too.

 

She didn’t live in the most upscale part of London, this she knew well. She lived in a small – still standing – apartment building just off Trafalgar Square. She used to live in a much posher place near Portabello with Freddie. A charming little place just off the market street, in a huge gleaming white townhouse on the top floor with a nice old landlord who tended to his sunflowers in the front garden and had a ginger tabby cat, and never had a nasty word to say to her. She and Freddie were good tennants, they paid their rent on time, and never made much noise. They used to spend lazy weekends wandering around London arm in arm, drifting in and out of bookshops and record shops, and going to dinner and going dancing. They used to go over to her Mother’s for roasts on Sunday. And they all leapt with Joy when he proposed last april when home on leave. She remembered she was still living in Portabello then, some of Freddie’s wartime pay going to the rent. She had saved and brought herself a new dress for his return, a black silk one which tied in around her waist. She had saved up on her meat rations for three weeks to buy all but three beef cutlets to cook for his dinner when he did return, with his favourite roast potatoes, swede and carrots. She leapt in his arms when he came through the door, he dropped his luggage and hugged her back, and she kissed him for half an hour to welcome him home. She knew that when some men went to war, and came home again that they may aswell have died out there on the front, Her friend Kitty, her huband came home from war, and he barely wanted to touch her, he just shook and cried and never smiled at her again. But Freddie, thank the lord, Freddie didn’t change. Not one bit, his blue eyes still gleamed, his smile still warmed her and he had all the time in the world for her when he came back. Hugging her close with a warm cry of _‘There’s my Girl’_ as he held her close and took away her breath with a kiss. And then they would eat, and talk and dance to the lastest Duke Ellington that he brought back. Last time he came back, when she wore the black dress, they had ended up making love on her living room floor by the fireplace, and then once more in her bed before the night was out. Waking up next to each other naked in the morning only to do it again. Before Freddie insisted they go out and have lunch somehwere posh with the money he had saved, so they did. They took the tube into town, had the nicest meal she’d had in ages, he even brought her a new hat that she insisted she didn’t need, he simply didn’t care, he tugged the red wool cap on her head, tugged her close by the sides, and kissed her on the lips, right there at the till in the shop. To which the saleswomen all gushed and swooned over him. And Elizabeth felt like the luckiest girl in the world. The morning after that, after they made love so many more times like they couldn’t get enough of one another. Freddie was due to be shipped out to Tripoli again. They kissed and hugged and cried at the gate before he left, and he told her to keep the bed warm for him for when he came back.

That was a year ago now….

Since then, her family had all been killed by the bombs in coventry, she had been unable to keep up the rent by herself on the house in portabello, Her kind old landlord was sorry to say he had to sell the place anyway, even he couldn’t afford to keep it now. She had found a small miserable little place off Trafalgar Square, close to work and walking distance from the tube station. But her landlady was a snappy old spinster who didn’t like anyone, and complained if Libby even so much as dropped something on the floor by accident. The infuriating little children from downstairs stole her milk bottles some mornings, and the man in the apartment above her head played music loud into the small hours of the night. It didn’t take long for Libby to miss the old life she had. She cried herself to sleep more than one night a week. Wishing freddie was here with her in her bed to soothe and hug her close, Wishing they were back living in Portabello, and wishing her mother and grandmother were alive again.

And now, as she trudged up the stairs to her place. The music from the flat above still blaring loudly, starting early this evening. Her landlady had already snapped at her, spitting and snarling over the matter of her one day overdue rent. But Elizabeth had snapped, shoving the letter under her nose and stating she didn’t owe her another hard earned penny for the shabby little excuse for a flat upstairs. She had then stomped up the stairs in a foul mood, which wasn’t improved as she bent down to collect her post from her doormat, and her lecherous neighbour, an odious oaf who fancied himself a handsome bachelor, but who she likened to a donkey on a barnyard, spanked her on the bottom as he walked past when she leant over to get her post, seeing those infurtiating little brats had stolen her milk again.

“Go away, Frank. I’m really not in the mood for this today…”

“I could get you in the mood gorgeous…” He winked, purring at her as he leaned in his doorway and swung his keys around on one finger.

“Leave me alone, Frank.” She sighed, crossing to her threshold and slamming it.

“One of these days, I’m going to stop offering, you stiff spined crude!” he shouted through her door.

“Good. Make that day, today!” she growled back.

He stalked back across the landing and slammed his door. She dreamt at night sometimes of Frank using his appaling charm on her in the hall, and Freddie coming home at that precise moment, and grabbing the man by his throat and throwing his against the wall until he begged for mercy as the hands of Freddie’s explosive temper that surfaced when he was provoked, or when someone made a pass at his Elizabeth. Switching in the blink of an eye as he would usher her inside and make love to her long into the small hours, uncaring of the noise or the grotty place in which she lived. How many times a day did she wish for her old life back? Far too was the answer. Her job used to keep her hopeful as she loved it, and it gave her something to get up for. But now.

Now she could pack up all her few valuables and clothes up into a case, and catch a train to Oxford tomorrow morning. She could leave all this remaining misery behind her, and she didn’t know if she wanted to weep, or laugh at that…


	2. Mistakes

 

 

                   

 

She had to have made an error somewhere along the way… The War Office was playing a cruel tick on her. They had to be. There was no way on heaven or earth that she had been sent to live in the grand house stood crumbling before her, for the entire, possibly very long remainder of the war.

It looked abandoned. Derelict. It looked like no one had lived there for nay on forty years. It was grand, for certain, atleast 2 or more floors, red bricked – she couldn’t tell with the amount of Ivy that fought to strangle the place entirely from sight in swathes of green vine. But she could make out the old dusky red of the brick below the undergrowth, it looked as if the nature surrounding it was trying to swallow it into the earth. As if it were ashamed of the dank old place, attempting to conceal it in the earth. She should have been clued in on the rundown state of the place when the busdriver _laughed_ at her when she told him of her destination. Really, she should have anticipated an eventuality something like this. Such an imposing and impressive looking old place, probably with a proverbial madman stashed away in the attic, who roamed the creaky old house at night. Like a nocturnal prowler, surveying its grounds. And grounds it had, as far as the eye could see in every direction, but all overgrown and untidied. Woodlands to the right, and by the looks of things, an old stagnant green swimming pond to the left. She couldn’t see any windows at the front of the house which weren’t concealed from the world by drawn curtains. She swallowed, stood peering through the wrought iron gates, that were rusting. She looked up to see some old emblem of a lion cast in metal leering above the gate. She looked to the house ahead with drawn brows, drawn together firmly the the curtained windows of the house in front of her, in pain. She pointedly ignored, but was wary of, the ‘Private Property, No Tresspassing’ sign which was chained to the gate, of which she now pulled far enough apart, hearing it creak as she smoothed down her red coat, grabbed her suitcases, all two of them, and slipped through the sizeable gap, pushing it shut behind her. There was one problem as she squeezed through, was that the gate snapped back shut on her, she winced as her leg was caught between the bars, as she pulled it free, she yelped as a jagged piece of iron grazed her skin, drawing blood and shredding one of her last decent pairs of nylons. She huffed in annoyance, and tugged her leg, and her body through. Nearly falling on her behind but managing to compose herself before she did. She slammed it shut angrily after she was through, for the sake of her now bleeding and pained leg. She composed herself and began the trek up the long drive. She only prayed that wizened and mad old professor who probably owned the property, and had allowed it to ricochet into such disuse, and dissaray, did not have hulking guard dogs at his beck and call to protect his grounds… But as her heels clacked daintly up the bricked driveway, un-evenly teetering on the cracks and weeds that fought through the brick to trip her. She lugged her things along in her gloved hands, twisting and stumbling as trailing overgrown weeds clung to the fabric of her nylon stockings, she kicked them away, but a few stubborn leaves stayed firmly on her claves and ankles. Which she growled at in irritance, leaving them be as she struggled with her heavy bag.

She eventually got to within five metres of the front door, and after hauling herself up the many stone steps, she set her case down and patted her coat pocket in the reassurance that the letter for her evacuation, and all the details of such were where she had left it. Swallowing nervously, she reached forwards and grasped the dulled brass knocker, and slammed it down three times on the wood. Hearing it echo on the other side as she chewed on her lip, hoping that what greeted her at the other side of that door was pleasant… A few minutes passed, and there seemed to be no movement, so, she knocked again. Louder this time, more insistant. And again she waited, hearing no movement or energy disturbed inside by her knocking. Her shin was now bleeding heavily down to her ankle, her feet were sore, and she felt exhuasted from the train rides she had taken, and on the verge of collapsing in tears that she had been barely holding onto since she found out about being evacuated. All she wanted, was for whoever was in that house so let her in. She really did have nowhere else to go. She felt helpless, and she hated that. No life to go back to. All precious possessions she had, she was wearing or carrying in her sparsely packed cases. She wiped back a lonely bitter tear from her cheek with her gloved hand, she did a lot of crying these days it seemed. She couldn’t remember the last time she genuinely smiled. She missed smiling, laughing. Luaghing til she wept. She hadn’t smiled since Freddie’s last visit. And it didn’t feel like she ever would again. She’d had enough. Enough of this war, enough death, pain and misery. What she really wanted, was a nice piping hot cup of tea, and to sit down with her mother again, and feast on the mouth wateringly good scones that only she could master baking to perfection, and ask what she would do in such a crisis as this. She wanted to sleep soundly in a bed without the fear of waking up to bombs raining down on her like hail, or the fear of not waking up at all. She’d seen too many lives squandered and destroyed by this war, and all that was lucky to be left behind and alive, may aswell have died too. It would be better off that way. She huffed, reaching to pick up her things, hoping there would be a small Inn in the village, 3 miles away. Her feet ached with complaint at the thought. But as she stooped, bending to pick up her cases, she heard the door creak open behind her, and the weathered face of an old man dressed in stark black opened from the other side. She straightened herself briskly. And found herself capable of locating her vocal chords.

“I beg your pardon for the intrusion. But, are you the Professor?” She asked in a small polite wavering voice.

“No Ma’m.” He answered tersely.

“Do you know where I may find him?” She asked. Desiring not to be turned out on the doorstep.

“The Professor does not want to be disturbed. And I would like to remind you, this is private property you have trespassed onto.” He steeled.

“I was sent here, By the War Offices in London. Evacuated…”

She explained, unfolding the letter and showing it too him, which he didn’t take, just glowered over with his sharp green eyes that had sunk in his sockets with wrinkled age. But she saw his resolve melt at the printed orders she showed him.

“He won’t like this…” He gruffed, seemingly to himself.

“I’m sorry….” Libby asked, struggling to hear his whispered grunt of complaint.

“Come in Miss….” He urged.

“Miss Miller. Elizabeth Miller.” She explained, gathering her things and stepping over the large threshold as he held the door for her.

As soon as it was shut behind her, she found herself enclosed in a house that was just as derelict and untidy inside, as it was on the outside. It was dark, and musky. The air felt still and cold, and smelt like old leather and paper. Like an old library. And it echoed some too, She stepped further in to see an imperial sweeping staircase divide in front of her, a murky and dull stained glass window directly ahead up the stairs, again, a lion prancing in the glass frame, much like the emblem on the gate. Atleast, she guessed It was, every window she could see was cordoned behind thick black velvet curtains. She clacked softly across the dusty looking black and white tiled floor. Stopping short of a circular table in the hall that was littered with books and old post. There were coridoors leading a long way down to her left and right. It really was a huge house.

“I am Clifton. Professor Cumberbatch’s Butler. Wait here, I will, _inform him_ , of your arrival.”

He warned stonily. She had a feeling this professor would be an elderly grump who wouldn’t want such a young woman wasting space in his house, on his property. She suddenly wished she was the other side of the door again, if the Butler’s umepathetic and unenthusiastic response was anything to go by.

“Thankyou Clifton…” She nodded, giving a meek smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She watched as he moved off, taking the corridoor to the right. Elizabeth listened until she heard Clifton dissapear. She sighed silently to herself, standing her heavy cases down on the dusty floor. The photo’s that were lining the wood panelled wall. Seeing photos and portaits of a, rather handsome young man, The Professor’s son perhaps? And pictures of a very beautiful woman stood by his side. A Daughter? Her eyes drifted over the skilfully done paintings, not recgnising their author. But seeing a small squiggled ‘BC’ ecthed onto the oil paint in the far right corner. They were a very skilled and accomplished painter, this ‘BC’. She carried on surveying the artwork and photographs in front of her, unaware that she wasn’t alone anymore as a pair of irritated blue eyes were burning into the back of her head. And the sound of his voice made her jump, gasping, and turn quickly around, to see the tall figure of a man, cloaked by the shadows on the stairs, watching her from his dark hiding place.

“I don’t usually allow strangers into my home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clifton rattled his fist gently on the study door. Hearing no response come from within. But nonetheless, This didn’t dissuade him from opening the door and striding through anyway. Seeing his masters form slumped on a chair in the dark, silouetted by the blinded window behind him, smoke twirling lazily into the air from his cigarette nearby. No doubt cast aside to the heaping ashtray next to half an empty bottle of bourbon or whiskey. As always, the picture frame on his end table faced down in the dust, so he didn’t have to look at it.

“What is it, Clifton? What the devil was all that bloody racket downstairs about…” Came the barking, drunk and clipped snarl from the chair.

“Sir, there is someone here who wishes to speak to you…”

“Tell them I’m not in.” He grumbled, growling.

“I’m afraid Sir, she seems insistant, and she does have written consent to be here…”

“She? What the hell do you mean by written consent to be here? This is my house, and I say I don’t want this mystery ‘She’ Stranger in it! Tell her to get out!” He gruffed, voice growing louder. Angrier.

“Sir, she has a letter from the War Office. She is the evacuee we said we’d accept. I told you this many weeks ago”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that!” He snapped.

“Well, Sir, with or without your personal agreement and acceptance of the matter, She i _s_ here, and she _is_ downstairs…”

Clifton heard his Master exhale angrily.

“Oh, send the chit back to London. What is she? A blonde airhead who cares more about her nail colour than her IQ…”

“No, Sir.” Clifton replied.

“And, I am afraid she cannot be sent back, It is against the law to refuse an evacuee.”

“Well?” He snapped.

“Well, what Sir?”

“What does she look like? Blonde floozy? Or does she seem to possess a braincell?” He snapped, leering from his chair on wobbly, unstable and drunken feet.

“She’s, well. Medium height, I’d say. Slender. Short Auburn Hair, blue eyes, red lips, pale skin. If it’s not to bold to say Sir, I’d say she is Rather beautiful, myself, Sir…”

Clifton couldn’t directly see his Master’s displeased stare, but he could feel it burning at him with dangerous irascibility.

“That is _far_ too bold, Clifton.” He drawled angrily. Standing and walking closer to the door.

“Sir.” Clifton smiled slightly as His Master moved to walk past him.

“That better not be a smile, I’m seeing Clifton.”

“Of course not, Sir.” Clifton smiled wider.

“Remind me why I haven’t fired you yet?” He snarled, launching down the hallway to take the main stairs down.

“Because you would have gotten yourself killed long ago without my watchful help, Sir.”

Clifton eased, smirking lightly as his boss stalked away with naught but a terse grunt behind him at Cliftons truthful statement.

 

He wound his familiar way through the house, treading silently down the shadowes stairs, turning on the landing and puasing when he caught sight of this unfamiliar woman in his hallway, peering politely over the photos on the wall. Some of his artwork, and pictures of his…

His thoughts trailed off as she stepped directly into the beam of light that sliced across the room, illuminating her from the window he was stood by. Perhaps Clifton was right, she was indeed, quite beautiful. He couldn’t see much of her body shape under her red wool coat, nor the colour of her hair under her poppy red hat that was tugged onto her head. But he could see the enchanting view of her profile as she studied his art, and _smiled._

He knew it wasn’t much – it wasn’t a wide smile. she didn’t bare her teeth, but rather gently twitched her lips up, pulling them back in a soft leer that curved her full red lips back, creasing her cheeks as she admired what was in front of her, He had to swallow and make his stomach stop squirming at the sight of her smile. He studied the rest of her in a very calculated way, seeing, As Clifton had told him, she did have lily white pale skin and light eyes, he was too far way to make out their colour, but he wanted them to be a soft worn blue, like the Indian oceans warm salty depths. And he also liked to favour that her eyelashed were long and fluttery like a butterflys wings beating on the breeze. His eyes couldn’t make out much more of her, other than her legs, which, were pleasing. Long, pale, shapely. Smooth, he could imagine, they looked as if the skin would glide softly under his hands-

He blinked the thought away. Allowing his drunken thoughts to swirl elsehwere to the back of his head as he decided to speak, seeing her gasp and turn at the sudden timbre and angered ring of his voice startling the calm quiet.

 

“I don’t usually allow strangers into my home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth turned, startled by the surprise, to inspect the man who had spoken to her. He was tall, frightfully tall, and the way he held himself as such, and clung to the shadows with the vast grace of ease, told her that he was now withering or aged old man. He was young, perhaps three or foure years older than herself. And she was only 34. His voice was dark, and rich. Reminding her of luxury and the crisp precision of order in which he spoke. The barking baritone echoed through the hall, ringing to her ears like a mallet striking a bell, and his tone told her he was impatient, educated and in charge.

“Before I have you thrown out of my house, may I have the pleasure of your name…” He gruffed.

She narrowed her eyes, so slightly. She was far too backboned and stubborn to allow herself to be talked down too in such a way. She would stand her corner if it came too it. But she still wished to remain a touch polite so as that he couldn’t fault her.

“Miller. Miss Elizabeth Miller.”

She spoke softly, politely, but with a biting rough edge to her words that let him know she didn’t appreciate being threatened, and also on the grounds of her having done nothing wrong.

“I take it that, you, Are the Professor.” She steeled.

“Sharp Focus, Miss Miller. I am indeed. And I am also wondering why you are in my house.”

He growled. Stepping slightly closer down the stairs, she still couldn’t make out his features, the shadows were still being his reliant cloaking cohort - Much to her dismay. But, at his pointed question, she bristled, he was starting to prick at her pride and intelligence, and that was a dangerous thing to do.

“Believe me, I don’t make habits of intruding where I am not wanted, and have no desire to be. I was sent here by the War Office, I’m an evacuee from London. It was confirmed that you were expecting me…”

She bolstered. Sending every inch of hostility that he was granting her, right back at him.

“I’m afraid I must have overlooked the matter.” He growled, anrgily. Voice getting edgily displeased.

“This is Morchambe Park, is it not?” She asked.

“Yes.” He bit out.

“And it is the 19th Of November, 1943?”

His jaw clenched.

“Unless I am a complete halfwit, and have not yet fully grasped a working understanding of the english language, This letter…”

She waved the letter in her grip in his direction. Which he snatched from her and looked it. Still in the shadows. And his previous predictions were right. She did have very blue eyes, and they sparkled with passionate anger at him when she was angry.

“…States that I am to arrive at Morchambe Park, on the 19th, of November, 1943, as an evacuee from Trafalgar square, until such a time comes that I, am allowed to return to London when it is deemed safe. I do not take very kindly to being threatened and demeaned, Professor. Especially when I have done nothing to warrant such antagonism on your end and your behalf. Nothing other than being forced to leave my life behind me, to come to a place where I am clearly not wanted.”

His jaw clenched in anger, but he rather felt like smirking. She had a backbone alright. And clearly was no airheaded floozy. He rather favoured they could warm up to each other in pleasant company. If he wasn’t quite so livid.

“If I allow you into my house, _my home_ , I can only do so with the gaurantee that you will not be idle and waste my time. I will put you up, Miss Miller….”

He stepped down into the light so she could see him. All of him. Pointing at her with her letter scrunched in his hand, balled up so the paper crinkled ebwteen his knuckles and his dexterous fingers.

“But I **_do not_** , even for one, Millisecond…” He growled, snarling like a wild beast at her.“… Have to _Like it!”_

Where he was stood now, he was unhindered by darkness. And gosh, was he handsome. Hair that looked admitedly unkempt, swirls of dark black hair shuffled and fell limply in loose curls on his scalp. His face was long and thin, hollowed, with gashes of cheekbones and dark bags under his eyes that made him look like he hadn’t slept in centuries, aswell as stubble flecked across his jaw. His lips were full and thick, and were pulled back over white teeth as he snarled and spat nastily with hell fury at her. His eyes were the thing to be feared though, as she found as she peered at them to see they were burning like blue embers at her, smouldering and crackling with heat as he stared her down. His breath carried strong fumes of heavy drink and the tang of smoke. She fought to recoil against him, and the revulsion to his loathsome character that rolled throughher stomach. Her eyes scanned down to see he was barefoot, amd wearing wrinkled trousers, a stained blue button shirt and a ratty old dressing gown that lapped at his tall sides. She could only imagine how his worn clothes were soaked in the scent of the smoke and drink too.

“I assure you, I am not idle.”

She growled, he was merely inches away now, and her hatred for this man was coarsing through her blood like hot coals, and they had only just met. Unofficially, she didn’t even know him beyond the gracious title of ‘Professor’

“I intend to earn my keep and my stay here. But If you expect to treat me like another member of your staff, you have another thing coming…” She tensed.

He smiled and scoffed, dropping her balled up letter to his feet. His eyes danced maliscously in the half light.

“You may do whatever your stubborn little heart desires, Miss Miller, Just do it in the safe assurance that we will not cross paths when you do.” He breathed resentfully.

She stayed silent watching his repulsed expression.

“… I’m amazingly appalled to say, I think we have found something in which we both agree on.” She gruffed slowly, voice like venom.

His jaw ground together.

“You should know, my agreeing with you makes me awfully uncomfortable…” He snarled. “And if you even so much as _think_ about being a pain in my neck whilst you stay here, I will have you ejected from this house….”

She stayed silent, watching as a woman who she hadn’t yet met, sauntered through the door behind them, teacloth in her hand, and her apron knotted around her voluptous belly. She placed her hands on her hips and adopted a stiff matronly stance that was not to be fought with. Or against. It was a posture that was only to be agreed with.

 _“BENEDICT! HOW DARE YOU! DOES ALL THOSE, POISON, DRINK AND PILLS WHICH YOU GUZZLE DOWN MAKE YOUR TONGUE GO VILE TOO?_ You will stop talking to her like she’s a prisoner of war right this instant. The poor girls been evacuated from her home, and I just bet that your snarling at her is not helping one smidgeon! Look at the poor thing. Her leg is bleeding and it must be seen too, and I bet she is in dire need of a cup of tea….”

Elizabeth was concentrating so hard on hating her new head of the house, that she was paying no mind to the searing gash on her leg, Which his eyes flickered too, to see that indeed, blood was trailing its way down her smooth long legs, to her ankle. Before he could make any noise about being uncereomoniously told off, Elizabeth was marched away in the comforting arms of the unknown woman, who steered her away from the Bitter angered Professor, of whom she had just made a very decent enemy of…

Suddenly she didn’t know if the life she left behind could be worse than the one she had just stepped into….

 

 

 

 


	3. Settling

 

 

 

              

Elizabeth was guided away by the stout and kind woman, who she was quickly introduced too as Mrs Higgs, The Housekeeper, Who had silvery threads of hair pulled back into a bun, and a fragile aged look about her, her skin was wrinkled and powder smooth, but considering she looked sturdier than a bomb shelter, showed that she was not going to let age wear her thin and weak. She had dazzling silvery ethereal eyes that closesly resembled her hair colour, and Elizabeth suddenly found herself liking Mrs Higgs very much, she was undoubtedly a member of staff who had grown so acustomed in her position that she need not begiven orders any more, she rather gave the orders herself, and she was dressed in a stark and startched black work dress with black thick wool stockings and heels that tottered on her tiny feet, and moved so agile like, Libby wondered how they held up the weight of her. She reminded Libby of her own grandmother, a stern old biddy who took no nonsense. She suddenly felt the overhwhelming urge to collapse in tears and hug the housekeeper for coming to her rescue.

She was led into an old, fairly clean and neat working kitchen. Where the windows were left uncovered and shone brightly, all but the corners were wiped free of dust, and Libby had every suspicion that the kitchen was Mrs Higgs’s squeaky clean and efficent, domain.

“Sit yourself down dear…” She pulled out a worn ooden chair with a patchwork cushion on it from under the solid dining oak table. Brushing Elizabeth briefly on the shoulder as she walked and retrieved a medical tin from the sink.

Elizabeth smiled and allowed herself to be taken care of for a change, it felt like a wholly missed experience to her. Not to have to watch out for herself and her own skin. She sat and unbottoned her coat, and taking off her hat aswell, revealing her duck egg blue silk dress underneath as she shrugged her wool coat off and tended to peeling off her shredded stocking gently off her bleeding leg.

Mrs Higgins turned and gasped softly at her dress.

“I haven’t seen a dress that pretty since the start of the war…”

She complimented, placing herself onto the chair opposite Elizabeth. Who smiled and self consciously tugged on the sleeve of her long soft blue wool cardigan that kept her arms warm.

“Thankyou. My grandmother helped me tailor it, I’m sure the hem is far shorter than appropriate, and it simply hangs off me now, thanks to all these rations, but, I cannot bear parting with it.” She explained. Dragging a hand over a crease on her thigh.

“I have more servicable gowns with me, of course, for chores and the like.” She stammered quickly in an afterthought. Mrs Higgs smiled.

“What does your grandmother think of you being carted off all the way out here?” Mrs Higgs asked, dabbing something from a bottle onto some cotton wool.

“I wouldn’t know.” Elizabeth spoke in a small soft voice. Mrs Higgins turned to look at her with drawn brows.

“My grandmother and my mother were both killed during the blitz. By the first wave of bombs..” She explained.

Mrs Higgs eyes softened in pain for the poor little thing. No one so young and beautiful should have to suffer such tradgedy so early, especially one such as loosing her own mother. But the young woman held herself with a might and then some of backbone. She looked robust and spritely. A fiesty young one, she was. She had an eye for these things, she could tell.

“No use crying over spilt milk, duckie, now, let us tend to that leg…” she smiled, dabbing the blood away with a cloth, before patting the wound with a sharp medicinal spirit.

“That’s a big cut you have there, I’ve been hammering Lorcan to get that fence replaced for nee on ten years now! Bloody man.” Elizabeth chuckled.

“Whose Lorcan if I may ask?” She probed politely.

“The Gardener dear…” Mrs Higgs explained. “He lives out in a little shabby shack at the bottom of the garden, young man, keeps himself to himself really. Much like the professor…” she breathed, wiping over Elizabeth’s wound.

“Now, about this name of yours, am I to always call you Elizabeth, or Lizzy maybe? Bethy?”

Elizabeth smiled. “My family always used to call me Libby.”

“Then Libby it is…”

Mrs Higgs laughed, Libby smiled wider. Before she saw a ginger tabby cat leap in from outside and launch itself onto the dining table, staring at her with huge feline yellow eyes and a friendly swish of it’s tail.

“And as we’re on introductions, This is Monty…” Mrs Higgs smiled, crossing to the bin and throwing the blood soaked cotton buds away. “No more use than a soppy, sleepy old fuzzy doorstop if you ask me.” She commented kindly to the feline.

Libby gave monty a friendly scratch behind his ear, which he purred at, rather warming to the new visitor.

“So how many staff live and work on the grounds? So far I’ve counted three, including you, The alleged gardener and the Butler…” Libby began.

“That’s all of us, I’m afraid.” Mrs Higgs explained, washing her hands.

“Just the three of you?” Libby gaped wonderously.

Mrs Higgs smiled, drying her hands and moving to the stove to set water on for tea.

“But the grounds are so _large_ …” She added.

“And, you are no fool duckie, a smart bright young thing, the grounds are vast, but they are falling to shambles because there is _just_ the three of us to struggling to keep it…” Mrs Higgs spoke gravely, moving to sit down again opposite Libby.

“What about the Professor?” Libby asked.

“What about him, dear?”

“Does he not help keep the house up and running.”

Mrs Higgs boomed with laughter.

“Oh, Duckie. He is the _reason_ its in such a state, not that I blame him. Poor man.”

Libby’s eyes sparkled with polite interest.

“He lost his wife, 19 years ago now. His daughter too. That’s why he mopes and drinks, and takes all those poisonous pills, that’s why he has such a foul temper.”

“How did…” Libby began, choking on the words.

“..They were on holiday in India, he was supposed to join them, but his work delayed him by a few days. They were killed in the Amritsar massacre, all they did was take a walk in the park, before the british forces open fired on the crowd, they died…. And it destroyed him…” Mrs Higgs recalled softly.

“… So, he drank, he shut the world out and mourned. He retired from his job and he’s been holed up in his study ever since. A very private man, he is, he keeps to himself now. Never used too, he used to be so, jovial, so full of life. And now,….. well. Then when war broke out, The only reason he wasn’t called up to fight, was on account of his hearing, he failed the fitness test for the army. His hearing is worse in one ear you see, damaged due to an ear infection as a child.”

Libby felt a pang of guilt for being so stubbornly impolite to the man. She knew what it was like to lose two people you love dearly…

“I can understand his pain…” She spoke softly.

Mrs Higgs gave a meek smile.

“I know that look. My dear. Don’t feel guilty for the word’s you excanged, You are the first he’s clashed words and tempers with, for a long while now, he’s sent many a young women running away crying. But, I can see that’s not your type.. I have a feeling you’ll be awfully good for him, Duckie. He needs a woman like you to kick him about the place… no matter how much he moans about it. Morchambe Park needs you, just as much as you need it. You’ll be a breath of fresh air to this dusty old place….”

She smiled, complimenting Libby as she wandered over to the whistling kettle and poured the tea. Handing the young woman the finished cup, milk no sugar at her request. Which Libby sat and savoured with hungered glee, Thanking her profusely, carnally clutching the cup and sipping down the contents, the hot liquid making her teeth ache.

Mrs Higgs watched her closely.

“I take it hot tea is a luxury in London…” she smiled wisely.

“It is.” Libby smiled. “That and any meat that isn’t corned beef, or salted beef….” She began.

“I can tell, very little meat on your bones, you skinny little rake. Needn;t you worry though, a month with me and you’ll be as plump as a christmas turkey.” Mrs Higgs assured her.

“We still get a good selection of food here, plenty of farmers markets closeby, and fresh veg, fruit is a might harder to come by, but the amount of taxes the Professor pays to ensure he doesn’t go starving, means that we get the cream of the crop here. We have Beef and potato stew tonight, with brown bread on the side, and bread and butter with home made custard for pudding…”

Libby’s mouth watered at the thought.

“I think you’re predictions of me being plumper than a turkey will soon cease to be a flight of the imagination in that case…” Libby joked, sipping her tea.

Mrs Higgs laughed. Her eyes drawn to the two small cases set by the woman’s feet. And the coat and fur on the chair behind her, her eye drawn to the broach on Libby’s dress. Pinned to her cardigan breastpocket.

“You don’t pack too heavily for a lady…” Mrs Higgs commented.

“No, I suppose not. The things I’ve brought with me are purely sentimental, the coat was my mothers, the fur and broach belonged to my grandmother, the hat was from my fiancee, and everything else is just….all I really have.” Libby explained.

“Fiancee…” Mrs Higgs asked with a politely interested smile.

“Yes, Freddie…”

Mrs Higgs watched her face and eyes light up with love as she spoke his name.

“….He’s overseas, in Tripoli, fighting with the RAF. I miss him terribly.”

“Sounds dangerous…” Mrs Higgs said, looking concerned.

“Some days I fear he won’t come back…” Libby admitted, chewing on her lip and looking down into her tea.

“Chin up, Duckie. The things we love, _always_ have a way of coming back to us in the end.” She said wisely.

Libby smiled. Maybe her stay here wouldn’t be so diabolical after all… she thought.

 

After she finished her cup of tea, and talked some more with Mrs Higgs, She insisted she would get to know the house a little better, deposite her stuff in her room. – speaking of which, was directly adjacent the hall from The Professors upstairs study and bedroom. Libby became wary not to make too much noise as she walked.

Mrs Higgs showed her where she would be staying, it was a nice room. Larger than her previous apartment in London combined. Even with her own bath and en suite off the side. And Mrs Higgs assured her that there was plenty enough hot water to go around, and she could find lily and honey soap in abundance for her to use. They parted at the door as Libby stood looking into the room, relieved at its comfort and luxury, whilst Mrs Higgs insisted she must leave to see to the beef stew for dinner. As she departed, Libby was left looking at her new home. And she liked it.

It was large, with a double bed which had fresh looking lined sheets and a thick grey wool checked blanket in case she got cold. There were two large windows that let in a lot of light adjacent to the bed, and the floors were wooden and creaked when she walked over them. There was a small walk in cupboard which would easily house the few dresses she had brought with her. And there was a dressing table and chair, not that she spent awfully long doing her hair and makeup anyway. There seemed, in London, like more important things to do other than beautify yourself when the air raid siren started wailing. A coat of lipstick certainly wasn’t going to ensure your life…

She unpacked, which took all of about ten minutes. And the room didn’t look vastly different. Just her perfume and cosmetics out on the dresser, her clothes hung up, and cases stowed away. The room didn’t look that much more effected by her presence, it looked much the same as the state she found it in, except it felt worn and lived in now. A stack of her books were on her bedside table. And she felt obsolete all of a sudden. With nothing to do. She sighed, walking swiftly through the house back to the kitchen to see if Mrs Higgs needed a hand with dinner.

 

 

 


	4. Startling

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                         

 

 

After a much appreciated dinner of fabulously wonderful beef stew, with thick brown bread lathered with butter, which Libby consumed like she hadn’t eaten for three years. Mrs Higgs guffawed with laughter and asked her where she put it all.

For dinner, it was just her and Clifton, and Mrs Higgs, The gardener, this mysterious Lorcan, wasn’t present, and Libby wasn’t surprised at the lack of professors attendance. But, she didn’t really mind, she got to know the staff of Morchambe Park, infinitely better. For example, Clifton. (whose, she found out, first name was Henry, As Mrs Higgs had berated him using his given name in front of Libby when he had gone back for seconds) and he had been a musical director before the great war in 1914, when he joined the army, fought for his country, came back penniless and found he had been replaced by a younger man who the theatre company had preferred over him. So, he sought out a job as a footman, working his way up through valet and eventually Butler. He had worked for the Professor for going on 13 years now. Mrs Higgs was more elusive when it came to details of her life, But Clifton had said that being London’s finest seamtresses and dressmaker’s didn’t count for naught, she worked in her family shop until it was sold off due to the recession after world war one, Libby was reminded how war cost people more than just their lives, she learned the dress shop was just off Saville Row, and how much Mrs Higgs had adored it. (first name Rosemary) and Libby had remarked how much she liked her given name, understanding now, why the housekeeper had commented on her dress with such loving vigour when she arrived. Libby also learned of the jobs she could fulfill here at Morchambe Park. One she was keen to get too, which was indexing and sorting out the downstairs, and upstairs library, starting with the top, and working her way down. She could also redecorate the downstairs parlour that had been left in disuse for many years after the death of the professors wife, so she learned. There was also the matter of some rooms that needed painting, and some far dusty corners of the house that needed their spirits and shabby decor uplifted. Libby considered herself the best woman for the job. Anything to while away the long hours and days she would spend here. After an equally as delicious pudding, One of Mrs Higg’s finest, She learned from Clifton, (who went back for seconds again) Libby enquired further into the elusitivity of the Professor, and more importantly his lack of company at the dinner table. To which she was told, he didn’t eat a lot, only sending down for the odd bowl of supper now and then. As the plates were cleared away, Libby bit her lip, chewing on it thoughtfully, before sliding her chair back and asking for another bowl of Bread and Butter with custard. Mrs Higgs chuckled and made the plump turkey remark to the young girl again, to which Libby simply smiled, brushing off the comment as she insisted that the second helping was not for her benefit….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There came a shy and timid knock at his door. He frowned. Clifton’s knock was sharp and professional, a quick rapping of the knuckles across the pine to alert the Professor to his almost presence into the room. Higgsy didn’t bother knocking, she just barged her way in, willing to deal with whatever so called ‘horrors’ were ahead in the room before her, she would then tut and make a chiding comment about the mess, which he couldn’t fight her on. Nor could he berate her for her bustling entrance into his private quarters, even Hitler would be afraid to exchange words with the stubbornly matron like woman who kept his house. He knew the gardener would be far too preoccupied with his damn books, and not his lawn, which he paid good him money to upkeep, only for the irish romanticist to ignore, and he would never seek out the Professor anyway. So he could only imagine by process of elimination, who the small timid knock’s owner was... A stubborn red headed, beautiful, mare of a woman who had swanned into his house unannounced this very afternoon. His jaw tightened, she certainly was what Clifton had said she was, beautiful, her problem was that she had a head and a half full of brains, which was both a curse and a blessing unto itself. He couldn’t decide if he found that quality, or indeed, the woman herself, dreadfully alluring or agonizingly irritating. His head was somewhat engaged in a civil war over her.

“Come in, if you _dare_ …”

He growled. He had taken a long swig of whiskey not too long ago, and a heavy muscle relaxant, so the resulting pleasant buzz that was throbbing through his veins made his tongue loose, and his brain deplorably inactive and lethargic.

He was slumped lazily onto his armchair, legs spread wide and head tossed back as he let thoughts of his new lodger slash evacuee run through his mind. He knew he was drunk, as he could detect the sloppy laziness of his limbs that made his body feel like it wasn’t quite all there, and plus the fact that he was circumventing the lovely ideas of how soft Miss Elizabeth Millers lips were, and how lovely her eyes would look if he could make them grow dark and aroused, how prettily she would look if she was spread out on his bed under him. Naked. Moaning. Writhing beneath him, with his name on her full red lips-

He dragged a hand down his face. Making the thought scurry away, before the gravity of it shot straight to the place between his thighs.

Except she hated him, no doubt. He would never see that particular upcoming fantasy become true reality in a million years. In fact, he was sure he was more likely to Marry the Fuhrer than he was to ever live through the indulgence of seeing her naked. Or in _his_ bed. _With_ him.

He saw the door gently pushed open, and the small recognisable frame of her slunk slowly in. And her beauty hit him all over again with the grace and instant elegance of having a grand piano dropped on his head from a great height.

She had taken off her coat and hat, the heavy poppy red wool number she had donned earlier when he first saw her, and he was glad somehow, pleased by this, because he could now savour what was underneath, and he rather favoured it was such a pleasing sight that it should not be concealed behind a shapeless coat. It was a light blue silk dress that shone in the little light of the darkened room in which he enclosed himself, shimmering in the light as she moved. the artful fabric that could be thanked for attributing many great tempting enhancement’s to her figure, she was slender, certainly, but then again, if she was living in London where the rations were twice as great as here in the country, then it would be bound to take its toll on her figure eventually. But he almost took pleasure in guessing that her hips were once rounded and soft, and leading up to a tiny little waist, and a perfectly shaped bust. – which was still perfectly shaped, mind. Bared elegantly by the crossing material of her dress as it was sinched at her waist, and flaring out down to just above her knees. She was wearing a blue wool cardigan to cover her arms, and a small golden pearly looking broach was pinned to her left breast pocket, glinting and winking at him as it caught the light, much like the shining fluidity of her dress, that rustled almost inaudibly across the room to him, in a whisper of material that could only be the sound of sliding silk, swishing and swaying with grace and enticing volatility at him. And her hair, it wasn’t brown and it wasn’t red. It lay somewhere comfortably between. But it was short, just grazing the bottom of her neck, styled so it curled wonderfully around her eyes as one side was tucked back, the other sliding in a delicate and lovely soft thick arrangement of curls over her forehead. She stepped into the room, pausing and half hidden behind the door, her injured leg stepping in, the other one following as she lingered by the door.

“I hope I’m not interrupting…” She spoke timidly, her voice soft and caring.

Benedict stared at her for a long moment,

“Well, don’t linger by the door, come in and shut it behind you, for gods sake, I don’t bite!”

He bit out, seeing her walk in briskly and pushing it too swiftly. He was to preoccupied with getting more drunk fo thoughts of her naked than anything else, yet she was a perfect stranger to him, and him to her. But clearly that trivial fact wasn’t going to deter his unwavering desirous mind.

“I noticed you missed dinner, so I thought I would take the liberty to bring you some of Mrs Higgs infamously good bread and butter pudding. And also to apologize for my behaviour and my words earlier, it was… carelessly rude of me.”

Benedict blinked at her, before averting his eyes to the knuckles of his right hand.

“I’m not hungry, but thank you. For both the food and the apology.”

She looked down to her feet.

“I know what it’s like to lose people who are so dear to you.” She spoke quietly.

His eyes snapped up to hers, the startling movement nearly caused her to jump back. She lost his focus and placed the cooling desert on a nearby table.

“Who told you?” He whispered nastily. Not looking at her, but rather staring into his glass of drink.

“Your Housekeeper. I’m sorry for bringing it up. But, I can partially relate. I’ve lost the people I love too.” She said in a feeble voice, fiddling with the hem of her skirt.

“Yes. Well. Don’t expect a deeply triggered, heartfelt plea of loving emotion from me. That’s life. It hurts us beyond measure at times. End of.” He brushed off, drinking the entire contents of his glass and slamming it down.

The sound made Libby wince and she then regretted ever letting the words slip from her mouth.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. Not looking at him. But inspecting her shoes.

“Yes, well that’s all very well and good, isn’t it, but that doesn’t bring back my wife, or my daughter. That doesn’t stop them being gunned down.”

Her brows drew together in pain. Why couldn’t she have just kept her mouth shut? She stayed silent.

He scoffed.

“Suddenly you’re not so chatty…” He dryly snapped at her.

She sighed, looking up and examining deep into his angry hurtful eyes. They were glinting blue spitefullness back at her.

“Belittling me won’t be make you feel any better about it. Nor will it make any difference to what happened.” She said sharply through ground teeth. She was being brutally honest.

His jaw clenched.

“It might not make any difference, but it passes the time so _nicely_ , I haven't had a good fight in years.” He hissed jokingly, But he almost sounded sincere to her ears about it.

“Scarring me over your wounded past will not erase it!” She said loudly with a stiff firm stance that was begging to be argued with.

“Careful, that mouth of yours is getting stubborn.”

“Careful Professor. You’ll want to hide that forked tongue back between your teeth.” She bit off. Turning to walk out the room.

“If you’ll excuse me, I really am not up for being demeaned and snarled at by a man whose brain is commanded by his drink, and his most bitter emotions. Goodnight professor.”

She ended softly, pulling the door open.

Only to find it slammed back shut with a startling _bang!_ by a large pale manly hand as he backed her into the corner of the room. She suddenly found herself apprehensive about her stubborness, because it had now landed her bracketed to a solid wall by the even more solid form of the professors lean body.

She could feel his skin radiating heat as she stood so close, his frame towering and leering over her with powerful intimidation. She suddenly felt as weak and as feeble as a doormouse, and he suddenly looked as poisonous and as deadly as a sneering viper. His eyes were burning blue hell fury at her, and his mouth was pulled into an angry line, and she could see the muscles in his jaw straining with the inclination to explode as his mouth was clenched so tightly.

“.. And I will not let some stubborn London socialite berate me over my behaviour in my own house.”

“I wasn’t berating you.” She fought back. “I was telling you I was not going to stand for being talked down too like a child, just because all I wanted to do was make amends and show you that you are not the only person in this world who is grieving.” She cried loudly. One hurt tear gliding from her eye as she spoke.

“Tell me what's happened in your life to make it so insufferable compared to mine?” He growled.

More tears fell.

“You’re unbelievable.” She whispered, voice whimpering.

“Come on, Miss Miller, I’m itching to know!” He demanded, body drawing closer, skin growing hotter, words growing angrier.

“You want to know why I can’t afford to be sent back to London? Because all that is waiting for me there is a shabby little flat, no friends, no money, and most likely, by the end of this war, no fiancé either. My family was killed in the bombings, and now I have no home. And nothing but the clothes on my back and all _three_ precious possessions left resting on my dresser. I have _Nothing!_ Atleast you have a home that is still standing, and staff who care enough about you to keep you from killing yourself on booze and poison. So don’t you dare stand there, and talk down to me about having sod all!” she cried loudly. Another sliding tear down her cheek. Glistening in the half light like a shrunken drop of mourning.

His face looked withdrawn, he looked down to his feet, before looking her in the eyes again.

He swallowed.

“My home is barely standing it’s in such ill abandonment, and all because of me and how selfish I’ve been in upkeeping it. The staff are only here because I pay them. Otherwise…” He scoffed. “I would have ended my own life by my own fault, years ago.” He ushered very softly and quietly.

“Clifton has known you for thirteen years. I don’t think his devotion is entirely owed to his paycheck. And Mrs Higgs talks about you like you’re her only son. I doubt very much that their wages are their only ties to this house, and the man living in it.” She whispered sincerely.

“What happened to the unbelievable forked tongued man?” he snapped. Chest laboured with deep angry breaths.

“He’s still stood in front of me. I just respect him a little more as of now.” She explained.

He exhaled and smiled, it was a fleeting expression. But he then bowed his head and slid away, letting her get to the door.

“I wager I’m going to eventually begin to enjoy having you around, Miss Miller.” He soke hesitantly.

“Please, the formalities aren’t necessary, Professor. Call me Libby. I insist.”

“Only if you call me Benedict in return.”

She nodded. Opening the door a fraction. Before turning back to him.

“Goodnight, Benedict.”

He swallowed and looked down to his feet, nodding vaguely. When he looked back up, he saw that the door had been clicked shut, and she was gone.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. A Matter Most Vexing...

 

From the moment she had laid her head on the feathery, freshly washed snowy down pillow, she had been tugged deep into the swirling pit of a most wonderful dream – the best nights sleep she’d had in many years. She had almost forgot what sleeping soundly felt like. She wasn’t listening out for the eerie wail of a siren, or the distant thud of bombs far off in the distance. Before she knew it she was dreaming soundly and without worry, until the sudden loud bang from the next room caused her eyes to bolt open and a sickening black shock to shudder through her.

She blinked to accustom her eyes to the darkness, only a small sliver of moonlight sliced across the room, and cross her feet on the bed. It was the tiniest slice of light from where she had left her blackout curtains slightly apart. Mrs Higgs had told they were only there to keep the ARP wardens happy, but rarely were they put in use. The vast country estate was shrouded by trees, so not much light seeped from the grand old house in the first place.

She blinked again, recoilng in alarm as another thud, equally as loud, came from the other room once again. She frowned mildly, her curiousity getting the better of her as she realised she was reaching for her gown to tug it on and go and investigate where the noise was eminating from.

She eased her feet gently over the creaking cold floorboards, creeping silently through the room, gently laying her hand on the doorknob, and twisting so it made the barest hint of a creak as it swung open swiftly with a soft whine. She peeked out onto the landing, seeing no lights wee lit, so she took the opportunity to scarper to her dresser and flick the small portable oil lamp on, just so she wouldn’t, most likely, trip over a forgotten and neglected pile of books. She had noted there were many swarms and heaps of them decorating every corner of the dark, grand old house. She peered around her doorframe, seeing that the proffessors room opposite hers, was dark, still, and silent. There was no flicker of golden shimmering gaslight in the sliver between the wooden floorboards and the door.

She hauled herself around the frame, crossing into the carpeted hallway, feet bouncing on the antique rug, feeling the material graze softly between her toes. She finally got to the door of the room from where within came the successive thuds. She twisted the handle and let herself in to see nothing more than a dark library, begging her to raise the question of where the eerie noise was coming from. That was until she spied the open window, loose on hinges and slapping onto the wall outside in the gale of autumn air. She huffed in mild humoured irritation, that suddenly seemed like a very mundane reason to be woken up for, she set the oil lamp down on the side table, and walked across the room to tug it shut. She secured the latch and turned around to walk out, right before a loud mewling sound and a long ginger tail brushed past her leg, and the blur of fur tore out of the room with a loud schreeching meow.

She gasped, with shuddering black shock bursting horribly through her bloodstream. She placed a hand on her chest in an attempt to still her frantically beating heart,

“Oh, _Oh, god!_ Monty…”

She exclaimed letting her heart slowly return back to what would be considered it’s normal pace.

But the next sound that leapt to her ears like lavish honey also set her heart rate on edge again.

“Do you make a nightly habit of jawing vivaciously with domesticated felines, Miss Miller?”

She didn’t realise she had yelped slightly in surprise at The Professors words, even more so at the trim cut of his figure, vertically reclining in the dark shadows of the hallway behind her. she turned to face him as her heart sought to calm down once again. That pale cut away and striking face was watching her with pursed lips that somehow managed to be amused, if the glitter in his glassy blue eyes was anything to go by, and in the moonlight that swathed him, they simply shone. Like two polished coins in museum cases.

She suddenly felt appprehensive in her flimsy nightwear in front of him. The powerful, oft arrogant and tumultuously turbulent tempered man. And she had only met him a mere matter of hours earlier, and already her stubborn mind was firmly deciding upon an opinion of him. The man had made it easy. He was controlled by drink and poisonous pills, and she was quickly making her mind up about his character like setting concrete.

In attempts to conceal her nightgown, she drew the dressing gown shut with a gentle tug. Unnerved by how his eyes watched the movement with a flash of long dormant hunger. She sighed before delivering her answer. Face stoic and unfaltering.

“Permit me, professor, but _do you_ make an methodical practice of pursuing and accosting young ladies on a nightly basis?” she parried back.

His jaw clenched, in the way that only she could make it, the damned socialite had been here naught three hours and already she was towing annoying habits out of him. Proof that she was under his skin, just as much as she was beginning to become a niggling thorn in his side. An embedded annoyance.

His eyes hardened at her dangerous wit.

“I can be assured that the young ladies may me answer back, heaven forfend you should expect to receive an answer from the cat…”

He japed with a mask of seriousness and morose sulking on his features. Not appearing to look like he was japing much at all

She blinked. He learned that was _yet another_ infuriating habit of hers. It was a blink that said nothing and everything.

“Well, I can safely be assured that the personality of the cat is far safer than yours..” She crossed her arms.

“Am I really that lurid a company?” He asked with interest.

“We’re standing in a crumbling house that says otherwise…” she retorted.

“Don’t bait me Miss Miller…” He warned.

“I think I already have. My mere presence seems to do the trick..”

“Now you mention it..” He growled angrily, eyeing her up and down.

She blinked. Again. and sighed too. It was even annoying when she did that. But, goddamnit. It was beautiful to him too.

“I cannot put my finger on precisely what it is about me that irks you so greatly, Professor. Im starting to believe maybe its because I’m a woman, or possibly due to the fact that I have a spine and know how to use it to tell you exactly what I think. But, gods be damned, I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place on deciding which is the truth…”

He stepped closer now, opposing forces were supposed to repel each other, like the polarising ends of a magnet. Instead, they were drawing closer, feeding off the tension and anger.

“You irk, me. Miss Miller, because you have trespassed where you are not wanted. And to make matters worse, I cannot tell you to leave. I have to put up with you. I feel I must write a letter to the war office telling them my home is not a dumping ground for London’s refugees… It is my own space and I will not have the memory of it contaminated with the likes of you. A stubborn, infuriating, supervisory socilalite, with all the looks of a toff, with all the manners of a sewer rat.” He snarled.

Libbys jaw clenched now, she was so close it was tempting to plant a fist squarely into his jaw.

“Why would I want to be in this neglected, shabby crumbling excuse for a house, when the recpetion inside of it is marginally warmer than the north pole. And to top it off, the master of the house turns out to be an arrogant, snarling beast of a man, commanded by the bottle and pills, and who doesn’t know how to grieve, live, or let go…” She shouted

“How dare you…”

He breathed, trailing off before his thunderous temper got the better of him, and he slammed the young woman into the door, holding her there with his body. So that she couldn’t even protest. Her hand spushed to his chest and his either side of her head

His eyes were on fire as they looked at her, his stance was crackling loud anger from every pore on his being.

Both of them were panting, chests heavening, tempers raging. Both eyes looking towards the others lips. Deciding whether or not to do something to douze the sizzling tension.

It turned out to be him who spoke first.

“..And most vexingly, I have never, _ever,_ wanted a woman more…”

He growled in a hot whisper. Before throwing himself away from her, eyes black and desirous as he stalked away to his room, slamming the door in his wake as the final full stip to their conversation.


	6. Tenacity...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Old' Elizabeth!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short! Tapping away at my keyboard for more as we speak!!
> 
>  
> 
> x
> 
> Author

 

 

The following morning was a dreary one for Elizabeth. And she wasn’t just referring to the ugly grey grips of rain that slithered down her window from a chowder thick and grey sky. An early rise, bath and hastily pulled on clothes, and the quickest application of lipstick with a swiftly done hair do, meant she had gotten up at 8 o’clock and was downstairs having breakfast by twenty to nine. She didn’t want to risk running into the Professor, or collide into him on the stairs for what was sure to be one of the most awkward meetings of her life. It was a miracle she had gotten any sleep last night after their sordid little encounter. Try as she might, she could not push the mans drunken advances from her head. So, she did the only thing she could think to do to fill out her purpose here at dreary Park. Her chore list. Of which had 87 things to do on it, and if one would dare call it vastly extensive, then one should need their head examined…

On it there was painting, decorating, indexing, filing, sorting, ordering, tidying, rearranging, re-upholstering, mending, and every other adjective one could ever hope to concoct, All messily scrawled on several sheets of crumpled paper in front of her. Some sported tea stains, others liquids of a more recreational purpose…

As she looked at the Kitchen table in front of her, she couldn’t help but become daunted by the gargantuan prospect of all the work she would have to undertake. Why she would need 350 years to complete it all, and several more pairs of hands. Clifton and Mrs Higgs were stood beside her, sheepishly giving each other a guilty glance at the young woman's obviously daunted reaction.

“Of course, Duckie. We’re not forcing you in any manner _whatsoever_ to feel you must undertake this. We’ll completely understand if you simply want to ignore it…”

Mrs Higgs explained, a friendly hand bracing the young woman on the shoulder as she sat down, steaming cup of tea at her side, and she had already had three rounds of golden wheat toast with jam. Of which her empty plate sat desolate- beside her, littered with fat golden crumbs.

Libby felt a flash of hot persistence grip her stomach and battler tenaciously with any morals that dare entered her head which even hinted at refusal.

“And give that foul mouthed drunken lout upstairs a chance to prove himself right?”

She asked with determined doggedness. Letting out a small bark of harsh laughter.

“I think _not._ ”

She ground out stubbornly. Plucking one small scrap of the list of the table and bringing it closer to read.

She was going to prove that beastly tempered, wretched mannered, filthily rude and downright infuriating man a reason to think twice about her staying at Morchambe Park. And she was hell bent on succeeding it, even if it killed her.

Another glance from Clifton to Higgs showed the Butler raising his eyebrows up so high they nearly joined his hairline. His green eyes glittered in the half light of the old kitchen with a spark of impressed captivation at the young woman's inspiring plight. Mrs Higgs felt like giving the girl a good old round of applause.

“East Wing Library…. That seems like a good place to start…” Libby smiled, scarlet lips leering into a smile.

Clifton, expertly trained hand of a butler her was, assisted her standing by easing the chair away so she could straighten up.

“I shall escort you there personally. Miss Miller.” He bowed, sweeping out of the kitchen and leading the way from the servants quarters.

Libby smiled at that.

Mrs Higgs stayed rooted to the spot where she was. Shaking her head with proud misbelief at the woman’s determination. That bulldog spirit that was winning them the war, and also letting Miss miller have a fine chance at turning this shambles of a house sunny side up again.

“I told you myself Duckie, A fine spirit for this dusty old place, you are!” She called after Elizabeth.

The woman smiled wider following after the wake of the Butler. She let to complete sit like a medal on her sleeve.

She had a job to do.

 

 

 


	7. Let There Be Light...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * of course. Not my quote! JK Rowlings of course!!! X

 

 

 

As she stood looking at the room before her. It was clear that two things became startingly apparent; One, She would be needing a change of clothes from her uninteresting blue day dress to something more servicable, like some worn old trousers and a shirt.

And second; She may have briefly underestimated just how badly in shape this house was.

(which led her brain onto the third unearthed point; which was that she may have been far too cavalier and confident about her brief bravado in turning this house right way up again)

Clifton stood beside her, gauging her reaction upon seeing the ghastly looking place before them. He felt in all honestly, he should have been more forthcoming about the state of the room. It looked like it had been ransacked by either someones fit of rage, or someone blindly searching for a note tucked into the musty pages of a book someone had long forgotten about. The books shich were lucky enough to remain on the thick dust encrusted shelves that was centimetres thick, their leather covers worn with sunlight and dust. They sat sparsely in wooden cabinets with glass doors, fogged with dirt. And there could barely be seen the fine persian patterened carpet for the piles of books that were scattered across it. Some pages open and left neglected. Their words appealing to the empty audience that was the neglected room before it.

For a woman who loved books as much as she did. Libby felt like the room and the books needed some TLC.

She stepped further in, seeing that there was another lone line of bookshelves clinging to the wall that molded around the door. More work for her.

Libby noticed something about all of the titles of the books she could make out in the room. There were many volumes of Austens works, Elizabeth Barret Browning, works by the Bronté sisters both, and Virginia Wolfe, and hundreds and hundreds more…

She could not imagine that the Professor, a man professionally bound by moral sense and driven by academic appetite for what he pursued outside of the lecture halls, somehow, it didn’t seem fitting for him to revel over the works of Mary Shelly or The Brontésisters.

She sighed, placing her palm on a dusty leather bound copy of Harper Lee’s works.

“Clifton… This was the Professors late wife’s library wasn’t it?”

She asked quietly. Respectfully almost.

Clifton stuttered and reproached his thoughts a little before replying.

“That would be correct, Miss.” He answered in a raspy voice.

Elizabeth nodded. A solemn expression of all understanding passing her face.

She took a deep breath, Clifton then watched as she crossed – wobbily on heeled feet, careful not to slide on the books - to the large sun filled window that was shrouded by very faded and dust soaked blue velvet curtains, and tugged them harshly open until great bursts of light appeared. The rain for now had stopped, and in its place a sun hung over the green landscape driving away the recently fallen rain.

Somehow the little act gave the room such life that it didn’t have before. The faded glass winked with the promise of revitalised life being thrown back into it.

“There..”

Libby smiled, shaking the curtains to get every last speck of dust out of them, the resulting cloud of it spinning around her in the shaft of sunlight that made her pretty auburn hair look like spun golden flame.

She looked back around the room. Willing herself to do it proud.

She looked back over to clifton, who smiled winningly at her. Green eyes glittering with respect for her.

“Happiness can be found in even the darkest of times. If only one remembers to turn on the light.” She quoted.*

“-or _let in_ the light, as the case may be.”

“Wise words indeed, Miss.” Clifton congratulated. Nodding.

“Will there be anything else?” He asked politely.

“Yes, Um. I think I shall need a few things… A change of clothes, perferably a shirt and trousers, worn ones. Dusters, polish a bucket of hot soapy water and as many spare rags as you can lay your hands on.” She instructed.

“Right away Miss Miller.” Clifton assured, dissapearing out of the door.

 

 

~

 

 

He was sure there was something substantly weighty sitting on his head. And there was a most horribly uncouth sounding thing circulating his bedroom ceiling too. Bee’s. It sounded like. It sounded exactly like a large herd of bees swarming above his cumbersome head.

He groaned.

No. scrap Bee’s. It sounded angrier than Bees. _Wasps_. Yes, that’s what it was, wasps. He had vague mempries of wasps as a young boy, the angered pointless insects that would always swarm round him when he was sat in the garden in the summer, drinking lemonade in the warming sunshine, and earning scrufss, cuts and grazes on his little knock knees that Mrs Higgs would have to patch up as he sat on the kitchen sink that evening as the sun set and his games had to come to an end. But the promise of tomorrow and more adventures outside or in Morchambe Woods lingered in the air. But he could distinctly remember the angry fuzzy sounding whine of the wasps. And that what his head sounded like right this moment.

He dared to slither his eyes open a fraction to find his room, half eclipsed in darkness, with daylight not suceeding the flood much light in his sqaulid little quarters. It takes him a couple of seconds to realise he is not in his usual place, not slouched in his armchair in his study in the next adjoining room, but rather sprawled across his unmade bed. That’s right, he remembers snapping something abhorrently foul at Mrs Higgs when she came to make his bed with fresh linens yesterday. Yesterday. It suddenly seemed like such a far off memory to his mind. But that was oartially due to the three strong muscle relaxants he had taken and the half a bottle of scotch he had bombarded his stomach with. The resulting buzz through his bloodstream was enough for him to revel and loose himself in for a while.

He groans, again. Attempting to coordinate his limbs into the equation this time. His eyes opened again, and wearily he blink’s himself awake, into that torrid and over exaggerated notion of consciousness that he really didn’t prefer.

He shuffled his arms to find he was sprawled on his back across his bed, still in the same clothes he wore the day before, the grey wool trousers, and white shirt with his ratty blue silk dressing gown atop. Once he manages to ease himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, touching the cold floorboards below, he finds that the wasps his brain hinted at earlier were in fact all circulating in his aching head. He was infact sporting a ridiculously unfunny hangover, which made his head rather feel like it had been invaded and firebombed by all of Germany’s functioning and operational Nazi Infantry.

He took a deep breath, to help stagger the shocking severity of the pain, and to let out a large yawn that showed even passing out cold after necking a bottle of scotch didn’t amount for a good nights sleep at all.

At All? Not one bit. He felt rotten.

But that wasn’t unusal, matter of fact, he can’t remember the last time _he didn’t_ feel rotten when conscious.

After sitting himself up, and running a hand across his face, he finds his palm greets the rough grit of long stubble flecked across his chins and his cheeks. And he could only imagine his hair was much the same, knotted, matted and tatty semblence of the black silken swirls of hair that he used to have. It had grown some too, curling at the nape of his neck in a fashion that was deemed too long for 1930s taste. He was sure most men sported short military crops nowadays, combed neatly with oil and kept short and clipped. Whereas his probably looked like a ungroomed cat had decided to take up residence on his scalp.

He’s pretty sure he smells as worse as he feels, and he feels like a _shipwreck_.

He managed to find the courage and pain tolerance to stand, somewhere in between scrutinizing his hair length, and being busy feeling rotten and sorry for himself. Shuffling forward on his tender feet until he passed through the open doorway to his disorganised study, seeing the chaos and mess that he was so used too.

He carries on walking, across the carpet dusted with spots of wet liquid – probably scotch – soaking into the expensive dirty carpet, aswell as cigarette ash and the corpses of dried cigarette buts crushed underfoot as he walked.

He ignores it and carries on towards his bathroom, puhing open the door, and where the light from the window where sunlight flys in causes searing agony to jump straight to his temples, spearing the back of his eyes.

He groans and staggers, fumbling for the blind to shut it, so now just lines of diluted light and shadow slice across the room. Now that his head wasn’t sawing itself in half of its own accord, he stumbles – literally – into the bath and twists the hot tap open so steaming water eventually gushes into the porclain tub. The sound of rushing water in gently soothing to him.

He waits until the level rises to one that would shroud his body when he sunk himself in. and he smokes the remaining cigarette he finds near his ashtray, unable to stop himself taking a long glug of bourbon – hair of the dog - before he puts the tip between his lips and lights it.

By the time he gets back to his bath, theres enough steaming hot water to turn the taps off which. But when he does, he hears another sound which the running water must’ve hidden.

Singing. He heard singing…

He pauses, fag hanging limpy from his lips, as he listens to the voice..

It definately wasn’t his head concocting the sound this time. This one was very real…

And it was feminine, girly, smoky voiced singing.

That could only belong to one woman in this household.

But the fact that he was sporting a hangover that could slain entire armies, the singing is absolutely making his head hum with pain.

_“Moonlight becomes you, it goes with your hair You certainly know the right thing to wear Moonlight becomes you, I'm thrilled at the sight And I could get so romantic tonight…”_

He turns the taps until theres no water idly dripping into the steaming tub, and stubs out the fag in the ashtray as he stalks out of the room. He lets out soft growls as his head positively spins at his speed, and his stomach turns at the dizzying notion of being mobile.

Eventually, he manages to stagger his way, not very far, down the hall into the East Wing Library, he burns with a newfound rage when he remembers that was the one where Cecelia housed all her books-

That thought kills him all over again.

And as he gets to the door, he sees no other than the infuriatingly beautiful yet mind blowingly irritating Miss Miller reshuffling books and coughing as she empties dust from open books by waving the pages and sliding them back onto the shelves where they belonged.

But before she can counteract his presence, he realises she is dressed most uncommonly for a woman. She was sporting what appears to be green woolen blend tweed trousers which fit her rather snugly at the waist, and clung very appealingly to her peachy round behind that was facing him. She also had a duck egg blue shirt covering her top half, tucked into the trousers so her ample bust strained under the cotton. He auburn hair was twisted up into some fancy whatever-women-called-it-style with a scarlet silk headband, and on her feet, he could see the wonderful curve of her ankles and calves where her feet were encased In sensible court shoes. All in all the tightness of her clothes that swathed her delecabtle figure, and that fact that her hair shone finely, like spun flames meant that he had to focus on not focusing too hard on her.

And dammnit all the Satan, Hitler, Stalin and hell, she was still bloody singing!

_“You're all dressed up to go dreaming Now don't tell me I'm wrong And what a night to go dreaming Mind if I tag along? If I say I love you I want you to know It's not just because there's moonlight Although, moonlight becomes yo-“_

“MISS MILLER!”

Her last song was rudely interupted by none other then the professor barking a clipped sentence which makes her startle and turn quickly, jumping as the book in her hand clatters to the floor and her hand finds new rest on her chest to calm her beating heart. Her startled yelp ringing in both their ears.

She manages to catch up with her breath, and breathe out a gasped

“Professor.” She chides.

He blinks, partially to drive away the pain of his headache, amd partially because the frontal scope of her is also rather pleasing to the eye. From that thick bust, to her small waist, then back out to her wide hips again. lord only knows what she looks like in noting at all-

No time for that kind of thinking!

“Would you please, Desist!” He spits, closing his eyes in obvious agony.

“Someones, a bit _precious,_ this morning.” She notices blatantly

His eyes burn acid at her from across the room.

This meets with a stubborn glare of mischief in her eyes, and she rolls the huge baby blue things like marbles socketed into her head.

“Well, what perhaps would you like to hear? I know some of the Andrew Sisters…”

He closes his eyes and grits his teeth.

He sighs. Loudly and rudely.

“Or perhaps you’d prefer another song still…?”

She asks, turning her back to him and continuing with her indexing the long forgotten about books.

“Oh Lord save me.” He mutters under his breath.

“Everything stops for tea?” she asks wittily.

His jaw aches by now.

“I’ve Got A Lovely Bunch Of Coconuts?”

His teeth must be turning to dust by now.

“Nothing at all would. Be.preferable.”

He growls, his last nerve so close to being severed, all she need do is open her mouth again and…

“More a Gracie Fields Fan, are we?” She jokes.

Consider his last nerve. severed clean off _. Oh, sweet homicide doth seem such a tempting option…_

“I.have. a head. Ache. That is approximately that as the size of belgium, and your yammering on about jokes and singing is doing nothing to assist it, so kindly, please, keep it zipped. Or I promise I will hang you off the roof by your knicker elastic and so help me god if you utter one more word while I’m speaking I’ll see to it that you are turned out onto the doorstep. Understood.”

Her eyes set like sapphire blue concrete as she slams a pile of books down – not lightly onto the floor – the resulting thud making his head echo with pain like a cave.

“Understood. Consider me silent from here on out.”

He turns on his heels and walks away from the room. Dissapearing into the safe murky darkness of the hallway, where there was little light to burn his eyes.

“You drunken, moody, self absorbed, poisonous, toffee nosed, rampaliant scornful wretch!”

She murmers under her breath as he leaves.

“I heard that.”

He snapped back over his shoulder.

“That was the intention…”

She bites back after his retreating figure. Slamming more books about to get on his nerves.

Outraged, he grits his teeth, and even though it nearly splits his head into fragmented splinters, he slams the door after him, acting as the final stipulation to their sparring match.

Elizabeth resists the urge to glare at the door the lout just vacated.

He trudges tp his en suite, rips of his grubby clothes, kicks them aside and plunges his slowly decaying body under the hot water, when he surfaces again, he slicks his hair off his face and leans back against the lip of the bath, hearing the water around him slosh as he moves his arms and stretches his legs out. Dewed drops of water pearl down his pale warmed skin, slithering down his fine torso. Highlighted by the lines of shadow and light that cut landscape across the room, that allow him to lean back and close his eyes in the shadowy haven of his bathroom.

But it’s not long before another sound seeps through the closed doors that bar him from the infuriating socialite three rooms away.

When he hears it, his eyes spring open and he finds his temper flares up once again.

_“Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,_

_And smile, smile, smile,_

_While you've a Lucifer to light your fag,_

_Smile, boys, that's the style._

_What's the use of worrying?_

_It never was worthwhile, so_

_Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,_

_And smile, smile, smile….”_

Her melodic voice was actually quite pleasant, she could’ve worked stages with that… he thought.

 

But the one thing he did do. Was laugh.

He _laughed._

Mostly at the wit and bravado of the girl.

He was damn near certain western mathematical principles could not account for the number of days it had long since been since he had laughed last. But he was damn sure it felt like absolute centuries ago…

 

Then a little thought popped into his head.

 

He could remember a time when he didn’t feel rotten. And worryingly, every occasion he called upon when he felt as such, was one where Miss Elizabeth Miller had been present and correct.

 

And was that the single most damnedest thought to reflect upon….

 

So he did think about it. He smiled, and eased his body under the hot water with that thought.

 


	8. Meeting The Gardener...

 

 

Mrs Higgs was busy lining the large oak dining table for dinner later on that evening, When she heard striding, yet neat and nimble treads make their way slowly to the kitchen doorway. Clifton was sat opposite her, shining his shoes. Even though there were only four of them in the house, this was no viable reason to let standards on his watch slip. He only wished he harnessed the luxury of being able to turn the likes of the shabby house around too. But alas, he beheld no such opulence in his station as Butler to do so. Mrs Higgs was busy fussing with the neatness of her placed cutlery when a decidedly shabbier version of their new evacuee made herself known in the room by announcing herself with a snivelling sneeze. Both members of the professors staff turned to see Elizabeth Miller – or the dazzling creature that once was – darken the doorway as she trudged through looking a little worse for wear than she did this morning. Her clothes, which Clifton had fetched for her, were streaked with grey swipes of dust. All across he front and her upper legs. She even had tiny specks of it clinging to the right side of her forehead. Presumably where he tired hand had smeared across her face in exasperation. Her cornflower blue eyes were watering as she paused and sneezed again. swiftly accelerating into a coughing fit not long thereafter.

Mrs Higgs tilted her head, welcoming the young woman with an empathetic look of sympathy.

“Dare I ask, how it’s going Duckie?” She enquired.

Elizabeth gave a small timid sniffle before her reply.

“Rather splendidly, although the state of me suggests otherwise..” She replied, taking a second or two to look down at her clothes and not the least bit surprised to find that she was filthy.

“…and evidently, I didn’t realise how worse for wear I do look, until I saw it on both your faces..” She admitted. Sheepishly glancing up at them both, away from her dusty clothes, with a small smile

“Have a seat. Dinners up soon.”

Mrs Higgs pressed kindly, touching a gentle hand to the girls shoulder after Libby had walked to the table and eased herself into the crooked wooden chair adjacent to Clifton. Who gave her a weathered smile as he continued to buff his shoes. She smiled with gratefulness. Suddenly feeling a wash of appreciative warmth settle across her body.

She had come from a tragically broken home and a war torn city, and these strangers had taken her under their wing, given her a roof over her head – that wasn’t going to crumble under bombs anytime soon – given her food, and a comfortable bed and a room all of her own. And they were both perfectly unknown strangers. They all knew it was against the law to refuse to take someone in from the big cities, but she had a sneaking suspicion it was no outcry on their behalf. In fact, she was almost certain they enjoyed being able to look after someone who wasn’t destroying themselves with drink or pills. They were obligingly warm hearted people in the employ of a cold hearted bastard. And a lecherous one at that. She winced, remembering his pawing attentions at her first night here. And the way he always seemed to examine her with hot eyes that melted all over her figure.

They were under no prepositions to be at all kind to her. They could have fobbed her off with the coldest, leakiest room in the house, with an acutely uncomfortable bed and no luxuries such as her own bathroom. They could have snapped at her every word, and loathed her presence, glare at her when she walked into the room, and given her nought to eat but a crust of bread and a glass of water. Yet, instead, they had welcomed her like family, opened up their home to her and she was relieved to feel – in time, and with some serious redecorating – she could come to see it as hers too. In fact, she wasn’t all to entirely unconvinced that she was starting too...

Libby watched with a smile as she woolgathered with her silent beholden thanks to the two, as Mrs Higgs crossed to the stove and stirred a wooden spoon about in a large cauldron type pot. The aroma of the food cooking, and bubbling away within made Libby’s stomach leap with hunger. She sighed and let her body rest back into the creaking cradle of the chair. She sat with her back to the huge open fireplace, the amber warmth casting its beautiful and soothingly hot light over her back, and neck. Ebbing away the sore muscles that were stiff from tirelessly rearranging books all day. And from the way she kept having to crane her neck about to look to the high bookshelves. She hadn’t realised the severity of her day until her muscles started to warm up and steal away her ache. She was content here, in the warm kitchen, with the wireless buzzing away in the far corner, playing some Palm Court melody as white noise which she wasn’t tuning into, just enjoying the sound of. The amazingly wonderful scent of Mrs Higgs food enticing her hunger in the air. With no aforethought to her earlier statement, she definitely felt at home here.

That was before another sound joined the din of the radio, Clifton buffing shoes, and the fire crackling away behind her. and that was the tinny pitter patter of claws picking their way across the tiled floor. Libby frowned, that was before Mrs Higgs sighed and placed her hands on her hips, and the matronly stance was back, as she shouted through the ajar top half of the kitchen door.

“LORCAN. GILLIAN. O’GRADY. WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT LETTING YOUR BEASTLY MONGREL INTO MY KITCHEN?” The woman bellowed through the door.

Libby blinked prettily, looking to the door as she heard footsteps clack up the path towards the it, a soft masculine laugh echoed through the gap the open door left. Before a swoon worthy voice, soaked in a smooth Irish brogue, rolled through the door to all of them.

“Don’t be so cruel, Mrs H. Why, can’t two young rascals earn a place at your Dinner table?” this Lorcan chuckled softly, still not appearing in the doorway.

“Young Man, may I point your attention to the last time this dog made his way into the house, he got into my third drawer down and ate three weeks rations worth of perfectly good stewing steak...”

She grumped. Libby watched as said dogs tongue lolloped out of its mouth, and he padded over to sniff excitedly at he newcomer who sat at the table. Libby held out her hand only to have the dog stripe a warm wet lick across her palm. He was a fussy little thing, a terrier she’d have guessed. A russet, copper brown colour with soft wiry fur, and coal black eyes. He had adorable folded little ears, a thin wispy beard of copper fur, and excitable tail, and long athletic legs with big askew paws at the bottom, that looked out of place on the small dog. He sat dutifully by Libby’s chair and rested his head on her knee, giving her great big doe eyes, and she had an uncanny feeling that the dog was every bit as cheeky and rascal like as that of his mysterious Irish owner.

Libby heard the drowned-in-Irish-brogue voice of Lorcan chuckle softly again. it sounded dangerously charming and deviant. That was before the door swung open and his identity remained a mystery no longer.

“Forgive and forget Mrs H, if you please, what's for dinner?” He asked eagerly. Eyes going to Mrs Higgs, before he caught wind of her, and unleashed a dazzling smile.

He looked like everything Libby could detect in his voice. Charming. Playful, and a pure Rascal. He had a pale face, and speaking of which, his face was handsomely carved, like the statues she remembered once seeing at the V&A, before they were all boxed up for safety. Because she remembered they were all smooth marbled deities of unquestionable handsomeness, as was Lorcan O’Grady with his pale skin that radiated rogue charm. Especially when teemed with his silky dreads of medium length ink coloured hair, dreamily pushed back on his forehead. Libby noted the length of it was a rare feature she saw on men these days, usually now every man opted for a shorter cropped style, neatly combed and oiled. But, he was a country dweller and instantly more relaxed with propriety and grooming as that of the army personnel she was used to seeing in London. She watched as one swirl of elegant hair dangled into his eyes. Of which were bluer than any priceless sapphire jewel she has been lucky enough to glimpse. His smile was cheeky and wide, and helped along by the fact his leer was perfect, and his magnificently structured jaw held rows of sparkling straight teeth. Libby wondered how he wasn’t cold, all he wore was a white linen shirt, rolled up the the elbows, with a beige grubby waistcoat, underneath of which she could see the brown straps of his braces, and old worn green blend breeches that would look more at home on a character from a regency novel, as would the battered brown leather boots that stretched up his calves. Because he was insufferably tall, with legs longer than that of a cricket. Which only seemed to finish off his character as impossibly lanky, dastardly dark haired, and charmingly handsome.

Libby thought all of this through with a sweep of her eyes across to him, expressly as he was looking at her now with a glimmer of cheekiness in his eyes. Not caring to the fact he was being chided by the not-to-be-contested-with matronly and stubborn likes of Mrs Higgs, who was at the moment telling him and his dog off. But, apparently, the Handsome Gardener was far too busy visually disecting Elizabeth with a rakeish smile on his lips.

“… that dog and you, had better behave in this house, or as far as I care, you can take your dinner alone in that grubby little shack of yours…” She warned. Voice thin and impatient.

Lorcan’s eyes sparkled at Libby’s.

“In my defence, Mrs H, Flynn only came in here to check upon the likes of our beautiful and I presume, permanent evacuee…” Lorcan purred with relative ease when it came to flattery, bred well with slight flirting mannerisms, that Libby was sure he would elegantly and easily offload onto women.

“Elizabeth Miller.” She introduced “It’s nice to meet you at last, Lorcan.” Libby smiled, rising from her chair as it scraped back over the tiled floor and she leaned to extend her hand to him. Which he took. Grasping it in his calloused hand, of which she saw his pale muscled arm was spattered with smatterings of crisp dark hair. And the hand that grasped hers had a cold silver ring with a Celtic knot on it, resting on his pointer finger. His grasp dwarfed her own, and made Elizabeth feel very feminine.

“Charmed,”

He gleamed, with a brilliant smile and a wink that made her tint pink. And that had nothing to do with the heat of the fire she was stood by.

She retook her seat, folding her aching body back down to the patchwork cushion on the warmed chair.

“How are you taking to our crumbling old house then, Miss Miller?” Lorcan asked, his words honeyed by his silky voice and lovely accent. She saw his brows raise up a fraction as he properly took in her dust ridden clothes.

“Rather well, in fact. Although the Professor is a required taste to be sure. Present company however, are treating me far beyond what I deserve.” Libby explained.

Libby watched as Lorcan smiled.

“The Professor isn’t the most palatable of characters now, but, he’s not the worst man in the world to work for.” Lorcan interjected.

“He keeps a good staff, very good housekeeper…” He smiled, looking over to Mrs H through his lashes in vain attempts to woo her into forgiveness.

As the elder woman was looking back at him with stony eyes and crossed arms. Libby found that not every woman was susceptible to Lorcan’s ‘woman – felling’ charm, and smile.

Clifton let out a harsh bark of laughter as the man’s attempts were rebuffed.

“You’ll have to use far more flattery to get back in her good books than that, my lad.” Clifton added. As Mrs Higgs handed him a porcelain bowl filled to the rim with chunks of fresh bread. Standing the bowl down on the table.

Lorcan looked to Mrs Higgs just as a dance song started to tinkle out through the wireless speaker. Lorcan moved his chair back, and stood, crossing to Rosemary, and Libby watched, with laughter bubbling up onto her lips as Lorcan suddenly grasped the elder woman into a dance hold, and spun her round the kitchen, humming at the top of his lungs as she laughed and twirled with him, apron still on, and tea towel in her hands. Libby couldn’t remember a time in recent months when she had laughed as much. Watching as Lorcan beamed at the housekeeper who had probably forgiven the young rogue now.

“ _I will feel a glow, just thinking ooofff you, and the way you look tonight_ ….” He sung, swinging around.

“Stop it, now! you silly fool..” She breathed through a laugh. Not meaning him to listen to her words at all.

“Come on Rosie..” He drawled.

“The night is young, and much too beautiful to waste, and I wish to dance with all the eligible young ladies in residence…” He winked, looking over to Libby, pointing her with a handsome daggering look.

“You’re next Miller.” He promised with a lovely smile.

Libby laughed.

“I’m not much a skilled dancer…” Libby laughed.

Libby smiled at Mrs Higgs as she collapsed into the chair next to Clifton, fanning herself with the tea towel. Laughing at the mans infectious happiness. Lorcan crossed to Libby, holding out his hand, which Libby smiled at, before she took, and was tugged off her feet and clasped into Lorcans lean chest.

“ _And that laugh, wrinkles your nose, touches my foolish heart..” He sang “Lovely, never never change, keep that breathless charm, won’t you please arrange it, cause I love you, just the way you look tonight.._ ” he carried on as she smiled, and he twirled her in circles around the warm kitchen. Enchanting eyes meeting hers with a spark of flirtation. All the while, Flynn barked and leapt about excitedly at their ankles.

“Here, I only met you a mere two minutes ago Miss, and now here you are in my arms, I don’t believe my charms have ever been this swift before.” He smiled.

Libby smiled back. Watching she didn’t tread on his feet.

“I’ve never graced a near stranger with my appalling lack of dancing skills before..” Libby beamed. From this close, she noticed that he had a claddagh ring knotted on a silver chain about his neck, it sparkled and shone in the light of the kitchen.

“Come come, now, you’re doing alright. You’re still upright, so that’s a bonus.” He smiled. Libby yelped as he unexpectedly swung her out, and then in again. Lorcans hands rested low on her back and Libby felt a pang of guilt, remembering the last time a man had touched her in this way, was Freddie.

Then, as almost as if he knew to look, as if she’d planned it that way, his eyes located the plain gold band on her ring finger on her left hand.

He smiled wryly.

“Whose the luckiest man in all of England then? To have you proudly on his arm?” Lorcan asked.

“Freddie. Freddie Peyton.” Elizabeth answered. Thinking dreamily of his gorgeous face and burning blue eyes that she tried to hard, every day, not to let the image of him fade from her memory.

“Where is this Extraordinarily fortunate man?” He asked.

Libby smiled, they had slowed the silly twirling now, it had become slower.

“Fighting with the RAF over in Tripoli.” She explained.

“Bet you can’t wait for him to come back, hey?” He asked.

“I think about it every day..” She smiled, slightly sadly. It pained Lorcan to see hurt weighing down on her enchantingly wonderful eyes.

“Well. With some more coaching from me, he’ll have a splendidly gifted dance mistress to come home too.” He winked slyly. His cheeky mask fully back in place.

Libby laughed, whilst Higgs and Clifton smiled upon the sight of them.

However, a gruff voice clearing their throat cut through all of the happy dancing. Piercing the air with a noise of dread.

They stopped, Libby and Lorcan turned their heads to see the figure darkening the doorway, glaring at them. Looking decidely unpleased, and very angry, and ever so slightly miffed.

The Professor.


End file.
